Ink
by darkeyedinnocent
Summary: Aspiring journalist Christine has stumbled on her biggest story ever: the sinisterly intriguing "ghost" haunting Beaumont Prep's theater. But as she is drawn into his world, she will find that more than her story is at stake. Modern with some new twists.
1. Chapter 1: The Assignment

**Note: **I do not own Phantom of the Opera in any way, shape, or form. I've had this story bouncing around in my head for about a year now, so I've finally decided to write it down. This is my first fanfic ever, so please read and review! Any constructive feedback would be warmly appreciated.

* * *

Christine was wandering the halls beneath the theater of Beaumont Preparatory Academy, and she couldn't remember why. Each twist and turn brought her into another section of empty hallway, the dim corridors familiar yet strangely unrecognizable. Something tugged at her memory as she took another turn, quickening her pace. She was…looking for someone. Yes, that was it. Someone had been calling her name, but the voice had faded quickly into a strange, lilting kind of music, like the strains of a piano, only sharper and clearer. The music echoed down the hallways, teasing her forward with notes that seemed discordant and harmonious at the same time. She swerved down one hallway only to double back again, confused; the music was enchanting yet elusive, fading away again just as she thought she was about to find the source.

She was looking for someone. Of that much she was certain. But _who_? There was a sudden surge in the melody as the music grew louder, and Christine began running to keep up. She turned another corner and found herself in the hallway that housed the choir room, even though she knew that the choir room was on the other side of the theater. Yet there was the door: Room 211. The music, throbbing and painfully sweet, was definitely coming from inside.

Slowly, Christine nudged the door open. The room was spacious and circular, with a wooden floor and a high, vaulted ceiling to enhance the sound quality. Rows of built-in benches followed the curve of the wall on one side of the room, while a raised platform stood on the other side. Various instruments and equipment were scattered around the edges of the platform, but the grand piano stood in the center, its smooth, polished surface shining in the light. A man was sitting at the piano bench, his long fingers trailing over the piano keys faster than she could follow.

Christine was suddenly inside the room, drawn by the hypnotic melody. The man was dressed in a trim black suit that seemed both old fashioned and stylish at the same time, and he was playing with his back to her. Breathlessly she moved towards him, afraid to break the absorbed intensity with which he played. The music pulsed all around her, filling her soul with a sensation that was glorious and heartbreaking at once. Without knowing why, she stretched out her hand, wanting to touch him, wanting to tell him—

At that moment the music abruptly stopped and the man twisted around to face her. Christine fell back in shock, her eyes wide, her hands flying to her mouth to muffle a scream. Although the man seemed normal in every other respect, there was only an empty, gaping black hole where his face should have been.

***

Christine awoke with a start. She froze, staring into the darkness in confusion. The only illumination came from her digital clock, broadcasting 2:49 AM in an eerie red glow. Slumping back against her pillows, Christine pressed a hand to her feverish forehead, trying to calm her breathing.

Another dream. From her very first week at Beaumont Prep, she had been plagued by dreams almost every night. Usually, her dreams would start out normally enough—which for her meant that they were bizarre. But ever since Meg had told her that stupid story, her strange, nonsensical dreams would always end in the same way: she would find herself in the hallways beneath the theater, led by otherworldly music, searching for someone unknown. Normally, she just wandered in the dreams, waking up before she could find the source of the sound. Christine shuddered, remembering her most recent vision—tonight had been the first time that she'd actually found the mysterious musician. It was not an experience that she would like to repeat.

Turning over, Christine peeked at her roommate, who was just visible by the glow of the clock. Meg's arm was slung across her head, her short, cropped hair in wild disarray. Sleeping soundly, as usual. Christine made a wry face in Meg's direction. After all, it was Meg who had insisted on telling her all of the juicy details of the theater haunting, eagerly gushing about the fact that their new home was rumored to have its own resident ghost. Sinking into a whisper for effect, she had enthusiastically informed Christine that several of the dorm's former residents boasted that they had seen the ghost themselves. Some described seeing a skeletal figure with a pale, smooth face like a skull, which could appear and disappear at will. Others simply described an ominous dark shadow moving freely down the corridors. Christine had pretended interest for Meg's sake, but the truth was that she didn't really believe it; those girls had just been trying to scare new residents of the dorm, and Meg had fallen for it.

With a sigh, Christine gazed into the darkness, her eyes catching on the barely visible features of the room. The room that they had been assigned had once been a classroom of the theater department, but the Academy had transformed the floor beneath the theater into a girl's dormitory for lack of space. Meg had been elated over their room assignment; as an irreclaimable "theater kid" whose mother worked for the school's drama department, Meg was delighted to be one step closer to the place she called her "true home." Christine hadn't been so sure; the theater was a place of constant activity, and the walls of the two-hundred-year-old building were paper thin. More than once she had been driven to search for a quieter place to study because she could hear the drama students rehearsing a play, the dance team practicing a routine, or the choir belting it out down the hallway.

Sighing again, Christine risked another glance at the clock and groaned. 3:05 AM. She would pay for her sleeplessness in the morning.

Settling back onto her pillows, Christine had just closed her eyes when she heard it. She sat bolt upright in bed, her breath caught in her throat, her ears straining. Silence. There was nothing. No…no, wait…there _was_ something. Sitting perfectly still, barely daring to breathe, Christine could make out the faintest strains of music from beyond the door. The melody was so thin she could hardly believe she was hearing it, but just as she thought it was only her imagination the sound would come again, unmistakable this time.

Oh God. Was it possible? Was she still asleep? Christine vigorously pinched her legs and arms. She stared around the room again to make sure everything was in its proper place. No, she was definitely awake, yet the song played on, soft and sinisterly beautiful. The strangest part was that, although she thought she could hear a slight echo of the music coming from the hallways, the majority of the melody seemed to come—impossibly—from _below _the floor.

Christine fought the sudden urge to get up, yank the door open, and storm through the theater until she discovered the real source of the melody once and for all. To prove that she was awake, to prove that she wasn't going crazy. But just as she was about to climb out of bed, the terrifying images from her recent dream came flooding back to her—the empty hallways, the music leading her onward. The man with no face. She froze, torn by indecision while the music whispered on, as if to mock her. In the end, the memory of the dim corridors ending in that blank, staring face proved too much for her. Flopping backwards onto her bed, Christine squeezed her eyes shut, pulling the covers up over her ears to block out the lilting, hypnotic sound.

***

Someone was calling her name.

"Christine. _Christine_. Oh for heaven's sake, Chris, _wake up_!"

A worn stuffed animal bounced off the top of Christine's head. She groaned, squinting in the glare of the morning sun. Meg stood at her bedside, looking down at her with an amused expression. As usual, she was dressed to the height of her quirky fashion sense: her ears were studded with multiple piercings, her wrists heaped with bangles, her school uniform accessorized by fishnet tights, combat boots, and pins spouting messages like "Hug Trees" and "No Meat." Meg winked at Christine over her rhinestone-studded glasses.

"Morning, sunshine. You better hurry up, or you're going to be late for class."

"What time is it?" Christine mumbled blearily.

"Time for you to get up," Meg chirped. She did a spin, throwing out her arms and striking a pose. "Well? How do I look?"

"Fabulous, as always."

Meg smiled. "Thanks. Auditions for the school musical are today, and I need to look my best." Her eyes widened with excitement. "Hey! You should come try out!"

"Um, I don't think so Meg. Performing isn't really my thing…I get too nervous. And I don't sing."

Meg waved her hand dismissively. "Sure you do. Everyone can sing. Here—sing me something. The first song that comes to your mind."

"No, really, I—,"

"C'mon! Just one song."

Christine hesitated, then shrugged. "You asked for it," she warned. Then she began a tentative, wavery chorus of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat." As she sang Meg's optimistic smile faded into a kind of politely blank grimace. She winced as Christine's voice cracked on the last note.

"Well," she said finally. "I stand corrected." Christine tossed the stuffed animal back at her and she ducked, grinning playfully.

Midway through a stretch and a yawn, the events of last night came rushing back into Christine's thoughts. She glanced quickly at Meg, wondering if she should confide in her, ask her if she heard anything, any music—but Meg was busy applying her lipstick in the mirror, humming a snatch of some show tune. Christine shook her head and threw the covers back, moving deliberately in order to clear the strange night from her mind. She needed to focus on the day, on reality rather than dreams.

Smacking her lips, Meg flashed Christine a smile. "Well, I'm off. Wish me luck!"

"Good luck. You'll do wonderfully."

"Thanks. I sure hope so." With a final glance in the mirror, Meg flounced off to her first morning session in the theater classes above.

Christine checked the clock and sighed. She doubled her speed as she washed and dressed, praying that she wouldn't be late to Professor's Najafi's class; she didn't want to ruin her perfect attendance record. She paused for the briefest moment in front of the mirror, scrutinizing her reflection. As usual, she could barely manage the dark brown hair that fell to her shoulders, bunching into halfhearted waves rather than complete curls. Her hazel-green eyes looked tired and slightly glassy from lack of sleep. Frowning, Christine straightened her uniform: a white, collared shirt under a mauve sweater stamped with the school insignia, complete with a grey pleated skirt. She thought that the requirement of school uniforms was somewhat ridiculous; she could study just as easily in a simple T-shirt and jeans. Contenting herself with the thought that the weekend's approach meant that she could wear her normal clothes, Christine grabbed her backpack and headed out the door.

Her several minute walk to the English building in the crisp autumn air helped to clear her head. The morning sun shone brightly on the neatly manicured lawns, the stylishly restored campus buildings. Mrs. Giry had told her that construction crews had been working all summer to update and preserve the centuries-old structures, and that they looked better than ever. The only building that had not yet been renovated was the theater, which Christine thought was strange, considering the fact that it functioned as a dormitory as well as a performance space. It was probably just her luck.

All around her, students were hurrying to their classes, laughing and chatting as they walked in groups of twos and threes. A pair of blond girls in perfectly pressed uniforms brushed past Christine, commenting animatedly on one of the girls' new Prada bag. Christine cringed inside, fighting a sudden wave of loneliness as she watched them pass.

Even though several weeks had passed since the beginning of school, Christine couldn't shake the feeling that she was out of place in the pristine settings of Beaumont Prep. The two main differences between herself and the majority of Beaumont's student body were simple: most Beaumont students had money and lots of it, and most had a family to support them. Christine had neither. She knew that it was only by the influence of Mrs. Giry and the extremity of her own social situation that she had even gained admittance to the Academy in the first place. Although Mrs. Giry and Meg had been wonderful, taking her into their family and setting her up at a new school, they simply could not compare to what she had lost in the past year, how her father—

Christine clenched her hands into fists. No. She would not do this. It was a beautiful day—a new day, a new start. She would not dwell on the past, not now. Forcibly blanking her mind of anything but her upcoming class, she reached the newly revamped English building and stepped inside.

Professor Najafi's journalism course was without doubt Christine's favorite class, as well as her hardest. Ever since she was a child, she had dreamed of becoming a hard-hitting journalist, the kind of intrepid and savvy writer that could get the real story behind events that most people only heard about on TV. She fantasized about traveling from city to city, interviewing everyone from politicians to construction workers about their lives and perspectives, and reporting the most current, breaking events to the public.

She smiled self-consciously to herself as she walked up the stairs, then grimaced as she thought of the article she was about to turn in. She could already imagine the headline: "Campus Switch to Eco-Friendly Light Bulbs Saves Energy." Not exactly riveting material. Aside from the new renovations and a few incidences with bathroom graffiti, almost nothing of importance had occurred on Beaumont's campus so far. It was a fact that Christine found incredibly frustrating; she needed to report _real_ news if she was going to win the S. F. Warner Journalism Competition. S. F. Warner was the most prestigious contest for high school journalists in the nation, and the winner would not only be awarded a one thousand dollar scholarship, but would also be offered an internship at _The New York Times_. Christine's heart thrilled at the thought of it, her ultimate dream.

She just needed a story, a _good_ story.

Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, Christine strolled into Professor Najafi's classroom, experiencing again the fleeting sensation of being under an unpleasant spotlight: after weeks she still hadn't shaken the stigma of "new girl," a fact that was verified by the curious and appraising glances thrown at her from several students. She slipped quickly into her seat, concentrating on rearranging her class materials as conversations floated easily around her, without her.

Beside her, a handsome boy with dark curly hair—what was his name? Raoul? Yes, maybe that was it—was laughing at something the attractive blond next to him had whispered. As he shifted in his seat to get closer to her, his elbow knocked into Christine's carefully organized notebooks, nearly sending the whole pile into her lap. Several pencils went skittering to the floor, but his gaze barely flicked over her in acknowledgement. Throwing a quick "sorry" over his shoulder, he turned back to the blond girl. Christine stared at his back, one eyebrow raised, but he didn't turn back around. Well. _Okay_ then.

As she picked up her pencils and straightened her books for the second time, Professor Najafi walked to the front of the room, motioning for silence. Christine felt fairly certain that if she hadn't already been dead-set on journalism as a profession, Najafi could have convinced her. With his dark, long-lashed eyes, his easy smile, and his Middle-Eastern complexion, he was without doubt the most handsome teacher in the school. Although he was not much older than his students—twenty-six or twenty-seven, at most—he had already worked for the _Times_ as well as for CNN. When he spoke, his voice had an air of authority that commanded attention. It was in this voice that he turned and addressed the class.

"I've graded your articles from last week and made my comments on them. Revisions are due to me by Friday, so you should start working on them as soon as possible. Also, on the board I have written the names of the three students who received the top scores, as examples of excellent work."

Najafi gestured to the white board, where three names were scrawled in his neat, looping handwriting. He tapped the name at the top of the list. "And even though she has made the list consecutively for several weeks, one student has moved up a spot to become the new class champ: Miss Christine Daae, for her exemplary article on the renovations being done to the administration building, which we will feature on the newspaper's cover." He offered her a warm smile. "Congratulations, Christine."

Throughout the room, brief though encouraging applause accompanied his words. Christine returned his smile fully, although she could feel her cheeks warming. As she looked down at her hands in pleased embarrassment, she caught Raoul staring at her out of the corner of her eye; his expression was caught somewhere between disbelief and cold irritation. Surprised, she returned his stare fully, wondering what his problem was. Clenching his jaw, his eyes moved back to the board. Christine uneasily followed his gaze, and realized: for the first time since school began, her name was written above his. She looked back at him, torn between savoring her victory and the strange desire to apologize. But Raoul refused to look at her, his eyes pointedly forward, his hands folded to hide his agitation.

Before Christine could think about Raoul's reaction any further, Najafi was standing in front of her, ready to collect her current article. After all of the writing had been turned in, he moved to the board, snapping open a marker as he did so.

"Alright then. The next issue of the _Beaumont Chronicle _is coming up, and we need fresh ideas for the paper. Any stories out there?"

The blond girl raised her hand. "What about the annual Fall Ball? It's just a couple weeks away, and I know someone who's on the planning committee."

Najafi scrawled her idea on the board. A boy in the back row spoke up about a string of bike thefts that had occurred recently on campus, which Najafi duly noted.

Christine sat silently while possible stories were discussed, staring into space. A strange notion was forming in the back of her mind, spurred by her sleepless night, by her mysterious dream. The more she thought about it, the more fascinating the idea seemed. Finally, she raised her hand.

"Yes Christine?"

"What about...the theater ghost?" Side conversations halted abruptly, and a few appreciative _ooh_'s slithered through the room, accompanied by a couple snickers. Najafi blinked.

"What theater ghost?"

"You know, the 'ghost' that supposedly haunts the campus theater. There's a whole legend about it. It might be interesting to find out how the legend got started, or if there really is…" She paused, thinking of last night, uncertain of her word choice. "…_something _there. I live in the dormitory down below, and I've heard—"

"Please," Raoul cut in, his voice thick with disdain. "The 'theater ghost'? You want to do a story about some urban _myth_?"

"It's a part of school history, right?" Christine retorted defensively. "What's the problem with it?"

"The problem is that it's an unfounded story that's been floating around for years. It's old news."

"Its old news that hardly anyone knows a thing about," she shot back. "I think it would make a really intriguing interest piece."

"Well, personally, I think it would be a disservice to our valuable readership," Raoul drawled coolly. "The journalistic integrity of our whole newspaper could be jeopardized if we start printing rumors."

Christine's eyes narrowed. Her voice grew cold. "Are you actually suggesting that I would want to publish _rumors_ in the paper?"

Raoul raised his eyebrows at her. "Hey, it was your story idea. Not mine."

Christine stared at him in disbelief, feeling her fury build. She had just opened her mouth to speak when Najafi interrupted.

"Stop right there." His voice carried the authority that seemed to outweigh his years, stilling them instantly. He strode to the front row.

Turning to Raoul, he said, "Mr. Charwell, I would like to remind you that this is a constructive class setting. We are here to support one another's creativity, not to belittle each other's ideas. I expect you to have more respect for your classmates in the future."

Raoul nodded once and shifted his sullen gaze to the floor. Najafi turned to Christine. "Miss Daae, I appreciate you sharing your idea with the class, but I'm afraid that Mr. Charwell's point—no matter how poorly expressed—is correct: the _Beaumont Chronicle _is simply not the place for urban legends."

"Yes, I appreciate that, but—"

"The answer is no," Najafi said firmly. He shot an appraising look over the two of them. Lowering his voice so that only they could hear, he said "And I would like to speak with both of you after class."

Turning around, he resumed his post at the white board, and after a tentative silence the students began offering other story ideas. For Christine, the rest of the hour passed in a slow, infuriated blur. She fixed her eyes silently to the board, her hands pressed to her burning cheeks as she concentrated on not looking, not even _glancing_ at the boy next to her. More than once, she curled her fingernails into her palms, fixating on the pain and anger that was welling up as she dug them into her flesh, briefly imagining what it would be like to dig her nails into Raoul's head. At last, the bell tower that capped the administration building tolled the hour, and the students gratefully fled from their seats. As soon as the last person had disappeared, Christine and Raoul approached their professor's desk, still steadfastly avoiding each other's gaze. Najafi leaned back in his chair, surveying them for a moment before he spoke.

"There is one story that was not discussed in class that still needs to be worked on. The fall musical is coming up—_Jekyll and Hyde_, I believe—and I think we'll do a feature. One of you will need to interview the crew: delve into the technical aspects of producing a play, the behind-the-scenes parts that the audience usually doesn't hear about. The other will need to interview the cast and the directors. The two of you will collaborate on a final review."

Raoul's eyes widened. "You want me to work with her?" he spat incredulously.

"You want me to work with _him_?" Christine echoed, matching his expression. Najafi nodded, his face unreadable.

"The play goes up in a month, and I expect a complete feature story on my desk the following week. I'll warn you," he continued, "your grade depends on this article. You'll need to work closely together if you're going to do it right. Are we all clear on that?"

"Fine," Raoul ground out. "Is that all?" Najafi nodded demurely. His face a mask of hardened anger, Raoul swerved around, snatched up his backpack, and strode through the door without a second glance.

Christine was slower, taking time to collect her books and papers. She paused as she slipped the last item into her bag, the idea of the "theater ghost" still nagging at her mind. Maybe it was just her pride that made her hold onto it, or maybe she wanted to validate herself after she had been all but accused of wanting to spread rumors. But deep down, Christine knew that there was more to it than that. Something about the way Najafi had dismissed her story so quickly irked her in more than a personal way—it simply wasn't like him to turn down article ideas so completely, especially one with mystery potential. And then there was last night; she had heard _music_, she was sure of it. Strange dreams aside, there had been something or someone there, in that theater.

Suddenly, more than anything, she wanted to find out what. Or who.

She slowly approached Najafi's desk.

"Umm, Professor?"

He looked up from the stack of paperwork he'd been working on. "Yes, Christine?"

Christine faltered, but pressed on. "Look, I'm sorry to keep going on about this. I'm not trying to be a nuisance, I'm really not. But…I have a strong gut feeling about this "theater ghost" story, and you always tell us to go with our gut instincts as journalists. I don't know why I feel this way…but I do." Najafi was watching her closely, and Christine struggled for the right words. "It's just that…I live beneath the theater, and I've heard about all of the strange things that go on there. And then last night—I thought I heard—music. Music, coming from beneath the floor at three AM."

She shifted uncomfortably under his steady gaze. "I know it sounds silly, crazy even, but I really think that something is going on there."

Najafi leaned back in his chair. When he spoke, his voice was weary. "Christine," he sighed, "you're an excellent journalist. Really, in all my years of teaching here, you're one of the best I've seen. But this story—," he paused, shaking his head. "It just won't work, Christine."

"Why not?" she demanded, but he held up a hand to silence her.

"It just won't. We don't print legends, no matter how interesting. We print news, facts." Turning attention back to the papers in front of him, Najafi forced a laugh. "Besides, if there _is_ a theater ghost, I'm sure he doesn't want to be found and interviewed."

Christine stared at him for several seconds. "He?"

Her professor froze. When he looked back at up her, there was a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability in his eyes, which was quickly replaced by an intensity that she had never seen in him before. He leaned forward, as if were trying to impart a message to her in his gaze.

"Don't pursue this, Christine." His voice held all of the command that he had used earlier, but there was something else there too, something that was almost pleading. "Let it go. Stay in the proper parts of the theater, and write the story that I assigned you. Do you understand?"

Christine nodded, taken off guard by his expression. After a moment's awkward silence, she bid him goodbye, picked up her things, and gratefully made her escape.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Tell me what you think!


	2. Chapter 2: Night Music

**Note:** This has already become the longest thing I've ever written by far--and we've barely gotten started! Sorry it's taking me so long to get to the Phantom parts; believe me, I'm just as anxious as you are to see our favorite masked prodigy slide into the pages. But I've never been one to jump in without proper set up. So please tell me what you think! I appreciate all constructive feedback.

* * *

Christine rushed down the stairs, away from Najafi's office, her mind racing. Her professor's intensity had unsettled her, but beneath her apprehension there was a burning knot of suspicion growing in her stomach. _He?_ Who was "_he_"_?_ And just what were the "proper parts" of the theater that she was supposed to stay in? And, above all, _why_?

As question upon question whirled around her brain, a slow certainty was emerging in the midst of her confusion: Najafi knew something about the supposed "ghost" that haunted Beaumont's theater. Something that he wasn't saying. Something that frightened him to the point that he would warn her to stay away.

Although the thought of him withholding information from her was infuriating, Christine felt a thrill of excitement race along her spine. If Najafi went to the trouble of warning her away from the theater haunting, then there must be something _there_ to warn her away from.

And she was going to find out just what it was.

So resolved, she reached the bottom of the staircase—and froze in her tracks. Raoul was standing near the door of the building's spacious entrance, engaged in casual conversation with several other boys. Christine's lifting mood evaporated instantly. Fighting the urge to find another way out of the building, she took a deep breath and began walking towards him. When she was halfway across the room he caught sight of her, and his expression lowered into a glare. With a word his friends dispersed, leaving him to walk across the shining tiled floor to meet her. An awkward moment of silence passed between them, as each stared the other down.

"Hey," Christine muttered.

"Hey."

Another awkward pause. Christine tightened her grip on her bag, realizing that she would have to break the silence if they were going to get anywhere.

"Look," she sighed. "I'm not any happier about this than you are, okay? But like Najafi said: our grade depends on this article, and I'm not about to fail an assignment just because we can't get along. So which group do you want to interview—the cast or the crew?"

Raoul regarded her coolly for a moment, as if debating whether or not he would even respond. Christine felt her irritation rise.

"Crew," he finally spat.

"Fine." Christine gritted her teeth. She had wanted to interview the cast anyway. "I'll do the cast and you'll do the crew. We'll gather our information separately during rehearsals, and meet a couple times—briefly—to compile it all together."

An ironic smirk passed over the boy's face. "Well. I suppose now that you've made the top grade in class, you're calling the shots, right?"

She clenched her fists, trying desperately to control the fury she could feel piercing hotly through her veins.

"I'm just trying to be organized," she snapped. "If you have a better plan, by all means, share it."

Raoul glared down at her for a moment, then tore his gaze away. "Whatever," he mumbled. "Let's just get this over with."

"My sentiments exactly." Christine spun away before she found herself saying something she might regret, considering that they were in public. Upon reaching the door, she called out without bothering to turn around. "I'll email you the rehearsal schedule, so we can get started."

Then she brushed through the doorway and into the sunlight, refusing to give the boy behind her a second glance.

***

She reached the theater slightly winded, having walked faster than normal in her anger. Just who did he think he was? First humiliating her in front of the class, and then being incredibly rude when she was trying to be civil! Christine ducked into the theater's side door, still fuming as she made her way past the main stage lobby and towards the downstairs area that housed the classrooms. She decided to spend her break in between classes trying to relax and forget all about this stupid assignment.

As she strode past the doorway of an empty room, she paused, retracing her steps to peer inside. Amid the discarded props and costumes that littered the classroom, Mrs. Giry was standing alone near the far wall, her hands clasped tightly as she stared out the window. Christine hesitated, unsure whether to interrupt her silent, agitated watch. She stepped softly inside the room.

"Mrs. Giry?"

The older woman started, whirling around. She closed her eyes in relief upon seeing Christine. "Oh, thank goodness," she breathed. "It's you. Please, do come in dear."

The girl walked to her side. She had always admired her new guardian's poise and style, the calm self-composure she seemed to carry with her at all times. Now Christine felt a stab of concern as she noted her furrowed brow, her strained expression.

"Are you alright?"

Mrs. Giry pressed a hand to her forehead, flashing Christine an embarrassed smile. "Oh yes, dear, I'm fine. Really, it's not very important." The smile slipped as her gaze returned to the window, her features resuming their distant, worried look. "It's just that… Headmaster Firmin has finally scheduled renovations for the theater. And they'll be happening soon."

Christine faltered, unsure of what the problem was. "But that's a good thing, isn't it? The lobby and the stage will be updated, and I'm sure all of the equipment will be replaced with newer technology. The shows will be better than ever, won't they?"

A bitter smile crossed the woman's face. "I'm sure they will, but it's not just the main stage that is to be updated. The renovations will extend to the entire theater: the stage, the classrooms, the dormitories, everything…including the basements down below," she added softly. "Everything beneath the theater is to be pried open and hauled out."

She paused, rubbing her temples. "I'm afraid that the new Headmaster may have bitten off more than he can chew this time."

Christine stared at her, still unclear where Mrs. Giry's dismay came from, but her pulse quickened at the mention of the spaces below the theater.

"Mrs. Giry," she said quickly, "just how many basements are down there?"

"There are several levels," the woman continued, her eyes still fixed on an invisible point past the glass. "At least three subbasements that I know of extend beyond this building's lowest point, and there may be more that have been abandoned. And then there is the legend that the theater was built more or less on top of an underground cavern…but no one knows if that's true."

"An underground cavern?" Christine's suspicions were building again at the possible lead, filling her with journalistic excitement. "Does anyone ever go down there?"

Mrs. Giry turned at the eagerness in her voice, seeming to focus on her fully for the first time. "No, no one. Not anymore." Her eyes narrowed. "Why do you ask?"

Christine shrugged, but she made a mental note of Mrs. Giry's reaction. "No reason. I was just wondering."

Her guardian continued to watch her, and Christine shifted uncomfortably under her shrewd gaze. Mrs. Giry opened her mouth to ask another question, but at that moment Meg came barreling past the door. Christine heard the squeal of her combat boots as she jolted to a stop, her heavy footsteps as she raced back, and then she was in the doorway, disheveled and out of breath.

"Margaret!" Mrs. Giry exclaimed. "What on earth is going on?"

"I got a callback!" Meg gasped. Her eyes were shining as she skipped towards them. "I got a callback for Lucy! Mr. Lassiter even complimented my singing—he said I've really improved!"

"That's awesome Meg!" Christine grinned at her. "But who's Lucy?"

Meg rolled her eyes at her friend's lack of theater knowledge. "She's practically the main female lead in _Jekyll and Hyde_, and my favorite character. She's a prostitute who becomes the main love interest for both Dr. Jekyll and for Hyde. The other female lead is Emma, Dr. Jekyll's fiancée, but she's not nearly as interesting." Meg's face fell a little. "Of course, Charlotte got a callback for Lucy too," she added rather dejectedly.

Mrs. Giry slipped an arm around her daughter's shoulders. "Don't worry about Charlotte. Just do the best you can, dear. I know that you'll do splendidly."

Feeling clueless, Christine asked, "Who's Charlotte?"

"She's the best singer in school," Meg explained unhappily, "and she's Mr. Lassiter's favorite. He _always_ casts her in the lead roles. Which is totally unfair because she's a total bit—," Meg reined in her words at the last second, glancing at her mother. "Erm, nasty person."

Mrs. Giry frowned. "Mr. Lassiter will choose whomever he feels is best for the role," she corrected in defense of her professional partner. Meg shrugged, content to keep her own opinions. She grabbed Christine's hand, waving a script in front of her face.

"C'mon! You can help me with my lines," she grinned.

The two started towards the door when Mrs. Giry called them back.

"Girls…do me a favor." She paused as if unsure of her words, one hesitant hand raised. "Stay in the main sections of the theater. Keep to the dormitories, the classrooms, or the stage; all the places where other people are usually present." Mrs. Giry had been addressing them both, but her eyes found Christine as she added, with peculiar emphasis, "Don't go wandering about in secluded areas. Or in places that you're not supposed to be in."

Christine stared back at her, feeling a cold twist of unease in her stomach. Hadn't she had almost the exact same conversation with Najafi that morning?

Her rising deluge of questions was cut off by Meg's flip reply, "Sure Mom. No problem." The girl ushered her through the door, smiling an apology while she twirled a finger next to her head in a "crazy" gesture. Christine chanced a glance backward as Meg tugged her along, catching sight of Mrs. Giry watching them anxiously from the doorway before she was pulled around a corner.

***

That night found Christine curled up in her bed, exhausted from lack of sleep and a long, tedious day. In addition to her other classes, she had spent over an hour rehearsing lines with Meg in the choir room, going over and over the small section of dialogue and its accompanying song until she was certain she knew every bit of it by heart herself. Listening with the slightest bit of envy to her friend's high, clear soprano, Christine felt confident that Meg was perfect for the role, no matter how good that Charlotte person was.

Rolling onto her stomach, she glanced over at Meg's empty bed. A concert by some famous local band was being held at a nearby café, and practically every girl in the dormitory had gone.

"You should come!" Meg had pleaded, straightening her newest outfit. "Everyone will be there, and we've been working all day. You deserve a break."

"Thanks, but I think the break that I really need is right here."

Meg had urged her to go for several more minutes, but when she realized that Christine couldn't be persuaded she gave up and headed out the door. Now it was just a little after 10 PM, but Meg and the others still hadn't come back yet. Christine sighed deeply, enjoying the silence not just of her room but of her entire hall. She loved her roommate, but it wasn't often that she got the room to herself, and she intended to take full advantage of the opportunity.

Stretching out, she buried her head in her pillows, gleefully pulling the covers up to her chin. Several minutes passed. Her body relaxed slowly into a peaceful doze, and soon she was floating somewhere between sleep and consciousness.

She began listening to the music even before she was aware that it was playing.

Nestled in her warm cocoon, Christine could barely hear the notes as they drifted across her mind, teasing and lulling by turns. She smiled softly in her half-sleep, listening as the melody grew from a light lullaby into something stronger. Her eyelids slid open.

It took her several seconds to register that she was actually awake, and several more seconds to become aware that the music was still playing.

Christine's weariness fled in an instant, and she flung the covers back, holding herself desperately still as she listened to the haunting tune. Every nerve in her body was on edge, straining towards the sound that seemed no longer confined by her dreams, but had spilled over into reality. Her first thought was that other girls on the hall must hear it, they must be curious about where it was coming from—but then she remembered that the other girls were all out at the concert. She was completely on her own.

Christine breath caught in her throat, frozen by a moment of terror as half-remembered dream images flooded her mind. A second later the terror melted away, replaced by a warm taste of practicality. So what if she was alone? She would not hide in her room simply because someone was playing the _piano_.

Setting her jaw with determination, she leapt from the bed, slipped on her shoes, and marched to the door. Peeking around the doorframe, she stepped cautiously into the silent hallway. The music raced along at a whisper, seeming to come from the passage directly ahead of her. After a moment's hesitation Christine strode forward, following the hypnotic melody as it wound echoing through the halls, as if to beckon her on.

Within minutes she was hopelessly lost, having never had a reason to wander through the theater's lower, labyrinthine corridors. She tried to number each twist and turn she took in the hopes of remembering the way back, but her focus on the music made her lose count. Remembering her dream, she first started out in the general direction of the choir room, but after several turns the music waned and she was forced to double back in confusion. The only piano she knew of was located in that room, so if the source of the music wasn't there, then where was it?

Christine paused, eyes closed. The melody wafted around her, tugging her with an almost physical touch. She shivered, then opened her eyes and swerved suddenly down another passage. To her surprise, the music seemed to lead her in the direction of the old dance studios. New ones had been built several years ago, but she seemed to remember hearing that the old studios still existed, empty and unused in some part of the theater. She increased her pace, half jogging as the notes dipped and soared around her. Rounding a corner, Christine found herself in the old dance hallway. The music, although still faint, was definitely stronger here than in any other passage she had encountered so far.

Slowly, she made her way down the eerie, dimly lit corridor, trying doors on her right and left as she passed. Each door was locked. Frustration mounting now that she was so close to her goal, Christine swiped the final door handle at the end of the hall especially hard, and to her surprise the door swung open.

The room beyond was pitch black. Christine paused, fighting down fear as she stared into the impenetrable darkness. Steeling herself, she stepped inside and switched on the nearest light as fast as she could. The room illuminated under the pale glare of florescent bulbs. It was completely deserted, its wooden floors dusty from disuse. She felt a moment of confused disappointment; the music's trilling echo was louder in here, but there was no piano and no musician. She had traveled all this way only to be met with another dead end.

Curious and disconcerted, she wandered towards the massive dingy mirror that served as the studio's right wall. She could see her own pale face in the reflection, her body divided into two halves by the dust-coated bar rail that ran the length of the mirror. Christine stretched out her hand to touch the glass. It was ice cold. Frowning, she pressed her palm fully to it. Was it just her imagination, or was there the slightest vibration trembling over the surface? Grasping the rail, she brought her ear up to the freezing glass. _The music_. It was as if…as if that soaring, powerful melody lay behind the glass somehow.

Christine stepped back, her hands moving all over the surface now. She slid her fingernails along the border cracks and tugged at the bar rail. She even smacked the glass a couple times, hitting it a little harder with each blow. It seemed like an ordinary mirror. Pressing her ear to the icy glass again, she closed her eyes. Yes. She could still hear it. But how was that possible?

Shaking her head, she stepped away from the mirror. She was getting nowhere this way; she would have to come back with proper tools, or at least with another person. And she would come back; she was confident now that the source of the strange night music was coming from somewhere beyond this room, behind this mirror. She just had to figure out how.

Striding back to the doorway of the dance studio, she took a last look around her before flicking off the lights. Closing the door firmly, she turned around—and smacked straight into the large, dark figure that had been standing behind her. Enormous hands closed around her forearms in a vice-like grip.

Christine screamed.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Please tell me what you think so far.


	3. Chapter 3: First Rehearsal

**Note: **Sorry this has taken me so long--I got wrapped up in the holidays. But we're finally starting to get somewhere! Chapter 4 might be delayed by a couple weeks since I'm going on an overseas trip, but I promise I won't keep you waiting too long. Please read and review!

* * *

Christine struggled in the figure's grasp, fighting waves of panic. With a desperate wrench of her shoulders she twisted herself away, skipping several paces back.

The man held up his hands.

"Easy now, easy! I didn't mean to scare you, sweetheart."

Halfway between staying and running, Christine eyed the man up and down. Greasy, shoulder-length hair straggled out from under his dirty baseball cap, framing a swarthy face flecked with stubble. His large, heavily built body was dressed in a stained uniform that had seen better days.

"Who are you?" she asked warily.

"Name's Joe, Joe Buquet. Janitor." He flashed her a toothy grin and gestured behind him at a cart full of cleaning supplies.

"Oh." Christine thought that the news should relieve her—he was just a member of the staff after all—but something about his manner kept her on her guard.

He leaned against the wall, his dark eyes glinting as he watched her. His gaze roved over her body in a way that made her want to curl up with disgust.

"So if you're the janitor, why are you still here? It's late." She folded her arms over her chest in part with indignation and in part to keep him from staring at her there, which he was doing freely.

"Call it dedication." That toothy grin again. He took a step towards her, and Christine took an involuntary step back. "I might ask the same of you, little miss. Just what is a pretty girl like you roaming these empty halls so late at night, hmm?"

She faltered. "I was looking for…my friend. I thought she told me she was coming down here…" She trailed off as he took another step toward her. "But, um, looks like she's not here, so I guess I'm going back to the dormitories now."

She took another step back. Buquet moved forward, spreading his hands. "Hey, what's your hurry? No need to be in a rush or anything. Gets kinda spooky in these halls after dark, and I wouldn't mind a little company." The look in his eyes made her stomach squirm.

"No, really. I have to go."

She turned away.

"You heard it too, didn't ya?" His voice echoed after her. She stopped and looked back at him, her eyes narrowing. He was leaning against the wall again, smirking at her.

"Heard what exactly?"

"The devil's little lullaby. Weird, _ghostly_ music floating around without an owner. But where oh where could he be, this music man?" He cocked an eyebrow at her, clearly enjoying her attention. "Or should I say, music _monster_."

"You're not making any sense," Christine snapped. "Do you know something about the music that plays here after dark? Or about…the musician? Please tell me if you know anything."

He picked at a brown tooth with his finger. "Oh I know something about it all right. Enough to satisfy your curiosity, I'm sure." He left the wall, leering as he stepped towards her. "If you stick around for a little bit, maybe I can tell you all about it. What do ya say, sweetheart?"

Christine hesitated, but one look at Buquet's greedy face told her that this wasn't a place she wanted to be. She tried to sound brave and commanding as she stared him down. "Sorry, but I have to go."

She turned her back on him once more, fighting the urge to run as she hurried down the hallway, away from him.

"Let me know when you want to talk," he called. "I'm always around if you ever need some company."

***

The afternoon sunlight was falling through her window, staining her math book with gold. Christine paused halfway through the problem she had been working on, rubbing her sore eyes. She was exhausted. She hadn't heard any music since her run in with Buquet two nights ago—at least, she didn't think she had heard anything. It was becoming difficult to tell, since the same melody haunted her dreams so fiercely that she wasn't always sure when she was asleep and when she was awake.

Last night had been particularly bad. In her dream, she had been wandering the halls beneath the theater again, searching for that unknown presence. Instead of leading her to the choir room, the dream music had led her to the old dance studios. Inside the studio, the mirror seemed to have grown to three times its height, towering over her. She was pounding on it, trying to get it to open, when she saw him: the dark, faceless figure standing right behind her, reaching towards her shoulder. She had screamed and tried to turn, but the mirror suddenly began to tip towards her, filling her vision as it prepared to crush her beneath it.

She had woken up just before the impact.

Christine sighed, staring listlessly around her. If she didn't get some real sleep soon, she wouldn't be able to prepare for the S. F. Warner competition, her grades would start to suffer, and then her scholarships would go down the drain, and then—

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden slam of the door. Meg slumped against it, one hand covering her mouth, her makeup smeared. Her eyes were puffy from crying.

"Meg, what's wrong?!" she exclaimed, hurrying to her friend's side. The crying girl took several shivery breaths.

"A chorus role!" she spat between sobs. "A damn, stupid chorus role!"

"What? What are you—"

"And I practiced so hard too! We practiced it and practiced it, remember? And you said I was a shoe-in for the part, and I, I really thought that, maybe…"

She collapsed into tears again as Christine rubbed her shoulders in distress.

"You mean you didn't get the part?"

Meg shook her head. "Mr. Lassiter said I had improved so much, you know? But apparently I only improved enough to be 'Peddler Woman Number Three' and 'Molly,' some random prostitute girl."

She paused to catch her breath. "Of course, _Charlotte_ gets to be Lucy. Lassiter's little favorite," she hissed tearfully.

After several moments Meg's sobs quieted into hiccupping gasps, and Christine put her arms around her.

"Forget Charlotte. You were perfect for the part, and you and I both know that." She squeezed Meg's hand as an idea occurred to her. "I'll tell you what: I'll interview you for my article, ok? When's your first rehearsal?"

"This afternoon, actually," Meg said wryly, rubbing her eyes. "Mom's starting to block us on stage really early because of the renovations. They're scheduled for just after the end of the month, and we have to be ready by then."

She gave Christine a watery smile. "I guess rehearsal will be better with you there. I just hope that—" She hesitated. "I just hope that nothing weird happens this time around."

Christine frowned. "What do you mean, 'nothing weird'?"

But Meg just shook her head, pulling away from Christine to reapply her makeup.

***

Several hours later, Christine was sitting in a plush auditorium seat, gazing in intimidated awe at the hustle and bustle around her. Students rushed to and fro, comparing scripts, laughing, and talking. The set crew was already on stage, rigging up platforms to be suspended high above, enabling them to reach the lights and equipment. Mr. Lassiter, a short, balding man with a rather nervous air, was discussing something heatedly with Mrs. Giry, who appeared to be agreeing with him with her usual composure.

Finally Lassiter turned to the stage, clapping his hands to get the attention of the assembled students. "Alright, settle down now, settle down. Well. Thank-you so much for being here today. This is a superb cast, a truly superb cast, and I'm sure that this year's production of _Jekyll and Hyde_ will be the best this theater has ever seen." Some students clapped and cheered, and again Lassiter motioned for silence.

"Now, we will have a short blocking rehearsal today. Just an hour or two, and then I am afraid I have a—well, um, an appointment that I, uh—must attend. So I'll have to leave rather early." Mr. Lassiter fidgeted with his glasses for a moment.

A tall, pretty redhead strode forward onto center stage, tossing her mane of hair. She raised her hand.

"Yes Charlotte?"

"Mr. Lassiter, I don't really see why the lead roles have to be here right now. Couldn't we be practicing lines somewhere while the chorus and the lesser parts get blocked? I don't know about them, but I have _a lot_ of lines to memorize."

Christine raised an eyebrow at Meg, who rolled her eyes in return. Lassiter looked cowed.

"Well, uh, that's one possibility, but right now I think that the whole cast needs to be here so we can work with everyone at once."

The girl's eyes flashed for a moment, but then she smoothed her face and gave Lassiter a winning smile.

"Of course, Mr. Lassiter," she said sweetly. "Whatever you say." She stepped back, and with relief the director handed leadership over to Mrs. Giry, who immediately began issuing orders to the cast.

Christine had just settled back and opened her notebook when the theater door creaked. She turned around, and her eyes widened. Raoul was standing in the doorway, framed by the waning light. He returned Christine's frown when he saw her, and she jerked back around in her seat, determined to ignore him completely. A moment later she heard the groan of a chair in the row behind her.

"I thought you said we would be gathering our information separately?" he hissed in her ear.

"I did," she replied primly, without turning around. "So why are you here?"

"A friend told me that they were having their first rehearsal today, so I thought I would swing by and take a few notes, schedule a few interviews." Christine heard the rustle of paper and risked a glance back. Oh great. He was opening a notebook of his own.

"I can't come by later," he continued, "because I have…a thing."

"What kind of a thing?" she asked, curious in spite of herself.

"Nothing, just…never mind." Several minutes passed. Christine tried to focus on her notes, but the sound of Raoul's pen scratching behind her put her on edge. She gripped her own pen in frustration. Finally she forced herself to turn around.

"Is there a reason you're sitting behind me?" she snapped.

He shrugged, his eyes wide with mock innocence. "I don't know. I've just always found this row to be fantastically _comfortable_, that all." He grinned at her. "You can move if you want."

His smile caught her off guard, taking the edge off of her anger. For a brief moment she was struck by his handsome features, the way his eyebrow lifted slightly when he grinned.

"No, I'm—I'm not moving," she fumbled. He leaned towards her, gazing into her face. She caught her breath in surprise. For the first time she noticed that his eyes were a deep, warm brown.

"Well then. I guess you'll have to get used to me sitting here." That challenging grin again, and then he leaned back and turned his attention to his notebook. Christine paused, torn between irritation, confusion, and an unfamiliar feeling of pleasure. With a huff, she whipped around and thumped back into her seat, examining the events on stage with furious concentration even though she felt that she would absorb none of it.

At the front of the room, Mrs. Giry was still barking out directions.

"Now, this is eighteenth century England everyone! It is dark, it is grey, and it is dreary. I want to see more tension between the common folk and the snobbish aristocracy. You there! Move closer to the soprano section. Gina, you're a grimy flower seller, hunch over a bit more. Charlotte, you're not supposed to be center stage; move to the left."

The redhead paused, one hand on her hip.

"But it's almost time for my first musical number," she scowled. "I think it would be better if I stayed center."

"And I said move." The woman's expression left no room for argument, and Charlotte sullenly stepped left.

"Very well," Mrs. Giry said briskly. "Let's continue. Tim, run and get the umbrellas, the brooms, and the wooden table from behind the curtain. We'll need them for the next scene."

A boy disappeared and the blocking continued for several moments before he returned, a confused expression on his face.

"They're not there."

"What do you mean, 'they're not there'?" Mrs. Giry snapped. "I put them there myself not fifteen minutes ago."

The boy shrugged, clearly uncomfortable to be under her scrutiny. "They're not there anymore."

"Mrs. Giry!" A girl came rushing forward from the other side of the stage. "All of the props we collected yesterday are gone too! The flowers, the hats, and the laboratory equipment have all disappeared!"

A hush went over the crowd as people nudged and glanced at one another. Christine thought she heard the word "ghost" murmured several times. She leaned forward in her seat, completely focused now.

Mrs. Giry stood perfectly still, gazing from one to the other. "Are you absolutely certain that the props have disappeared?" Her voice was deadly calm, but intense. The two students nodded.

Mr. Lassiter hurried forward, blustering. "Mrs. Giry, what does this mean? Where could—"

The theater teacher held up her hand for silence and the man complied at once. Mrs. Giry's face was unreadable, but Christine thought she saw her glance to the stage's high rafters, obscured by equipment and darkness. She followed her gaze. Nothing moved up there but shadows, but Christine felt a shiver arch down her spine.

"We will continue without the props." Mrs. Giry's voice was firm and resolved, but she spoke loudly enough to be heard throughout the whole theater. "Charlotte, let's begin from your song."

Tossing her hair, Charlotte resumed her preferred position at center stage. Christine's eyes were still on the rafters, peering into the space that stretched several stories above the stage. Everything was still and empty up there—wasn't it? She squinted, but the darkness seemed to move and blur until she could hardly even make out the light equipment and platforms that hung so high up.

The sound of the stage piano drew her attention back downward. Charlotte began to sing, and Christine gasped softly. She was good. Really good. Christine frowned, thinking of Meg's painful disappointment. She might not care for Charlotte's attitude, but her voice was strong and perfectly in key.

Oblivious to her judgment, the redhead sang on, her nose in the air as she belted out the notes. Halfway between dislike and grudging admiration, Christine listened to the song, becoming absorbed in the spectacle on stage as the chorus acted along.

She was so focused on the scene that she didn't notice the stage light unhook until it was halfway to the ground.

"Look out!" someone shouted. Charlotte's song ended in a garbled shriek as she was jerked out of the way. Half a second later the light fixture smashed into the stage, spraying glass over the wooden planks precisely where she had been standing. Students screamed and ducked, hurrying to get off the stage while Lassiter tried helplessly to maintain order.

Jerking her attention away from the chaos, Christine's eyes flew immediately to the rafters. In the shadows, she could just make out the steel bar that had held that particular section of lights. There was a gap in the row from the light that had just fallen, and the bar was swinging haphazardly as if someone had just jerked it. Or leapt off of it.

She squinted. There wasn't anyone up there, and there was no way that someone could climb the ladder without being seen—

Wait. Christine's eyes widened as she stared. Wait…there _was_ something up there.

At first she had thought it was just another piece of equipment, but slowly her vision deciphered the strange black shape perched high above. The figure was balanced precariously among the ropes and pulleys and platforms, remaining absolutely still. The body seemed to be swathed in some kind of black material, blending in perfectly with the darkness, but Christine could see the outline of a shoulder, an arm, a leg.

A face. No—half a face. One side of the face was vaguely visible, a pale semblance that seemed almost to glow in the dim light. The other side of the face was eclipsed in shadow, though Christine thought she saw the glint of an eye even from her vantage point. The figure hung suspended above the oblivious crowd, seeming to watch them with an air of satisfaction.

An icy chill ran through Christine's veins. She was seeing him, actually seeing him.

The theater ghost.

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Yay Erik's intro! Please tell me what you think so far!


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